Take your seats for the new series of The Crown. But here's the scene you won't be seeing. Its contents were exclusively revealed in this blog on 13 September 2020. Now read on:
Boris Johnson's 115th Dream
Boris and Carrie are sitting watching television.
‘Oh great! The Crown!’
‘Oh yes. World-beating! But wait a minute, Carrie. That caption says May 3, 2021. None of this has happened yet. How can they know about it?’
‘Shh. I’m trying to watch the programme.’
‘Oh God! I don’t look like that. Surely they could have found somebody better looking! And he’s nearly bald! Where’s the phone. I’m going to get on to that new head honcho we put in – Davey Somebody – and make him take this off.’
‘Boris! It’s not the BBC, it’s Netflix. Now shut up and listen.’
‘Oh. I was expecting to see the Queen.’
A hint of a mirthless smile flickers beneath an impressive moustache. ‘I’m afraid Her Majesty is otherwise engaged. She asked me to see you on her behalf.’
‘Hold on! I recognise you. You’re Tommy Lascelles. You were in the last series or the one before. You can’t meet me, because you’re dead.’
Unlike his interlocutor, the urbane functionary is not in the least nonplussed. ‘Don’t believe everything you read on Wikipedia, Mr Johnson. It sometimes…….exaggerates.’
‘You mean “prime minister”’
‘Mr Johnson.’ The mirthless smile was back.
‘Well, the point is that once parliament has passed this ‘Unilateral Cancellation of EU Trade Agreement Bill’, I’ll need HMQ to give the Royal Assent pronto, so we can implement the populi voluntatem without delay and all that.’
‘And, of course, if you ask Her Majesty to take that action, she will have to comply.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Which is precisely why you will not do it.’
‘What do you mean, Lascelles? You can’t obstruct the will of the people.’
‘I have here a few papers for your perusal.’ (The phrase: ‘Restricted. Top Secret. Not for Fatman’s eyes’ is fleetingly visible on one.)
‘Oh. I’ll take them back to number 10. Dom reads that kind of stuff for me.’
‘The papers will not be leaving this room, and, Mr Cummings is (Lascelles consults his watch) as of now, ‘a guest of Her Majesty’, as I think they say in the films. Apparently something about his time in Russia?’
‘There’s no point trying to frighten me about leaking stuff to the press. The ephemerides are all in my pocket and the BBC daren’t sneeze without my say so.’
The immaculately turned out royal servant produces a newspaper and eases it across the table. ‘If the papers I showed you a moment ago are too voluminous, perhaps you might cast your eye over this?’
“‘Bang Up Boris’ call. Gove poised for No 10.” What’s this?
‘The front page of tomorrow morning’s (Lascelles raises his eyebrows and utters the next word as though wiping something nasty off the sole of his Berluti Oxford) Sun. I managed to persuade them to tone it down from ‘string up’ to ‘bang up’.’
‘That bastard Gove! It’s a fake, Rupert would never do this to me.’
‘If you examine the papers I suggested you should read, you will see that some (the pause is followed by the same tone of voice used for ‘Sun’) gentlemen who had hoped to profit from certain actions of yours felt they had not received the degree of forewarning you promised, and so have not profited as much as they had anticipated.’
‘Can I get my mobile?’
‘As you know, these audiences are strictly mobile-free.’
‘Then I need to get back to Number 10 right now.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Some kind of security alert. The police say there’s a suspected criminal in the building. However (it’s that mirthless smile again) should you wish to avail yourself of a generous offer from President Putin, you may leave now and take asylum in Krasnoyarsk.’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘A place in Siberia. The president has provided special transport from here to the airport, and your flight leaves in a couple of hours. Aeroflot. I’m afraid he couldn’t get business class.’
‘You can’t do this. I’m the prime minister! I’m the prime minister!’
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